“Are You Effeminate?”

He asked while deciding if he would let me fuck him. Did he expect me to poke out my chest? Disclaim myself the cosmology of all that is male? Often I wonder what other men, committed at maintaining these performed bonds of masculinity, respond. “Ask me that when my dick is in your mouth,” I responded.

The lore he created around himself was not unique: DL, ex military, masculine, only fucked with the same. While drying off from my pre-fuck shower, before optioning my skin, I considered the several iterations of this question asked of me on a weekly basis while topping. “Are you masculine?” As a graduated black masculinity studies student, I’m often amused by this question. “Are you asking do I shower in a fitted hat?” “What are your parameters? How are you measuring this phantom masculinity you constantly seek?” These are the wiestions I sometimes ask back when I’m curious about I’m being asked. The response mostly is, “you know what I’m asking, nigga?” ‘Do I know what I’m asking,’ often is the reality. Too often I feel forced to confine my views of my masculinity, or femininity, to fit into the views of others. Is my love of flowers feminine when several male societies have been responsible for growing crops, shifting the earth, being one with nature? If I fuck you until you cum out your ears while wearing toenail polish you won’t see under my socks, will that change the amount of pleasure you just enjoyed?

The end goal of this line of inquiry from these masculine craving men, who enjoy being penetrated, is to feel they’re engaging another man in a ritual of silence. They want to feel they’re only seeking out, and being fucked by, ‘real men’. They want to know they’re ‘chillin’ with, ‘the type of guy they can walk down the street with and nobody know we’re together’. If you need a performance to give up your cakes, I’ll give you enough realness for us both to enjoy your cakes being served. If you’re looking for a discreet top who’ll smoke a blunt and talk shit before pounding your cakes, I’m your guy. If you feel the need to armor coat this interaction in hyper-masculinity the outside world seemingly strips you of for desiring these interactions, that’s your work not mine.

“Outside,” he texted. I took another hit and felt like a stupid little boy, exactly what he wanted. Drag queens beat their faces for hours becoming their illusions, and I pump myself up on hip hop and ganja to be an easily consumable masculine delight. Stepping into the daylight i scowled how I learned to look at dudes to let them know I’d beat their ass growing up. Opening the front gate, he walked in nothing like the figure he forcefully postured.

Minutes later, he was on my bed, crawling towards me standing up in front of the headboard, naked. He arrives to me. I’m standing over him, fully erect. Grabbing the back of his head, I tilt it to the side, watching the impression my dick makes in his cheek as I push further down his throat. I rested right where I knew he could still breathe, but not quite, and asked Sergeant Facefuck, “Am I effeminate?” He struggled to answer with me in his mouth. I pulled out, slapping my dick on the side of his face as his airway cleared. “Am I effeminate?” I asked again louder. “No,” he sputtered, gasping for air, relenting to how I controlled and made his body into what I wanted it to be. Although he answered his own question from earlier, something in his answer rang out hollow. Somewhere inside of me I wanted it to be, “yes”, or something more complicated, less binary, and for all the complexity to be ok.

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